A Man of his Word
by sian22
Summary: Ithilien Rangers, a brutally wet spring, and Damrod's dice. What could possibly go wrong? A sequel to 'Cool Hand'. Rated K for creative swearing. First in the Teitho Challenge 'Consequences"


Never bet with Damrod.

It was a simple enough rule to live by. No games inside the Refuge involving sharp pointy things. No fisticuffs or fights. No betting with cutthroat veterans. There were consequences to revelry inside an impermeable confined space, but the Ranger's Captain had looked upon the low, lumbering clouds and predicted without need of any foresight looming days of torrential rain.

 _What could possibly go wrong?_ He'd thrown caution to the wind and accepted the first taste of Anborn's latest rotgut.

It was, in retrospect, an act that should merit danger pay.

 _Nienna have mercy on my head._

Faramir and those not on the watch had hunkered down and broached a cask or two. Pulled out mandolin and tambor, and his own feadan, to add to the enthusiastic if not quite dulcet chorus. Cards were cut and a small feast of special treats laid out. As Damrod fingered his Kine horn dice and ambled slowly round looking for a victim, the Captain thought ' _for once I deserve a little fun_ …'

"Madril," he'd announced, "kindly take command. Tonight's watch and on the morrow."

It was not as if they risked extra danger. The Refuge was safe and secret. The lower approaches to the range would be impassable for those who did not know the way: the black 'wood ear' lichen that adorned the rocks became slippery as bear grease in the wet. Days of sheeting rain would render the forest tracks rivulets of mud. Deer and wolves, birds and even Orcs would be sheltering in place.

The first cup of crab-apple brandy went down quickly. The second and third a little slower but still fast enough to have effect. A fruit-fired warmth had begun spread in his belly and a comfortable lassitude in his limbs by the time Damrod blew on his precious ivories and gestured round.

"No takers?" he asked in the gravelly baritone that set fear into many a new recruit.

When no one seemed minded to tempt the fates Faramir slowly raised a hand. The result might possibly be foreordained, but the men did say he had the Valar's own luck.

"Damrod, I'll have a go."

There was quickly stifled gasp of shock. "Sir!" Surprised and pleased, the older man strode over to where Faramir sat, long legs stretched out comfortably, a fourth cup close to hand.

A grey eyebrow rose up and deep set wrinkles pulled into a crooked smirk. "A wager?"

His own mouth twitched. Until that moment, Faramir had not considered joining in that part of the sport, but it would make the game more entertaining.

So long as it was something _hard_ for the wily Ranger to complete.

"Accepted." Faramir leaned forward, hands on knees. "If you lose my friend, you will not swear for an entire week."

"Ooo hoo!" The burst of laughter from round the cavern was entirely satisfying—the men knew their gruff lieutenant. His speech was as blue as a Kingfisher's breast.

Damrod rattled the dice thoughtfully in his fist and finally stuck a scarred hand out. "Done! And if you do, Captain, I've have you swear, once for each point you lose."

Twenty.

He'd lost by twenty points.

Faramir's first uncharacteristic utterance-their favourite Westron profane insult- had just fallen into a blearily hungover and silent morning. Two words. Precise and crisp and clear. Delivered with one eyebrow raised and sufficient menace to make Damrod step back a pace.

A certain satisfactory silence reigned then those that were mobile stood, grins spreading like flame as man after man came to attention and clapped as loudly as he dared.

Damrod grinned and clapped his young Captain just a little gently on the shoulder. "There you go, Sir. 'Tweren't so very hard. Only nineteen more times to go."

 _Valar._

"Easier when the headache recedes a bit," drawled Madril laconically and Faramir flashed him a dirty look. Lucky bastard and his troop were drenched but obviously felt fine this morn. It might be the first time he had ever wished he'd patrolled in a springtime gale, but that horse had bolted from the barn.

'Best get it over with, Sir," chimed Malec helpfully. "Say it nineteen times in a row."

Faramir (slowly) turned his head and regarded their young scout. His eyes were red, there was a largish crease upon his cheek from the barley sack that had been his impromptu bed, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. How old was Mal? Ninteen? Or twenty?

Oh the resilience of the young.

"That feels too easy, lad." It did. And after rushing through the filthy sayings all at once he would feel like he'd need a bath. Not an option in the circumstances.

"How much time do I have?"

Damrod blinked and rubbed his stubbled jaw. "Nineteen days I suppose. One a day."

Faramir set a hand to his aching head. "Surely more time than that? I have spent thirty-five years of my life avoiding it."

Damrod barked out a laugh. "Tis' not that bleedin' hard!"

He raked his lieutenant with a flat apprising stare. "Would _you_ swear in front of Lord Denethor?"

The man paled to a shade just shy of curdled milk. "Ah. No."

After a lively but remarkably muted debate, they gave him not more than 20 weeks. "I'll not do it on a specific day," he warned, "I am not a trained parakeet. There will be no warning."

The men agreed to this stricture, but then it dawned on some that twenty weeks meant almost half a year.

"Who's going to officiate?" asked Mablung.

Madril paused in the act of shaking the morning's downpour out of his long hair. "Don't look at me. Ye've got to be able to read my scrawl."

True. Officially their First Lieutenant was a lettered man but some days Faramir found it easier to give up and take dictation. He nodded toward their lanky newest sergeant. The Minas Tirith lampwright's son had been practising of an eve. "Torgil. Would you oblige?"

"I'd be honoured, sir." 

* * *

And that was that. There was a new thread to the routine of their days and it proved a boon. After the third day of constant deluge all the arrows were mended, reports completed and inventory done; men formerly dead from drink were mostly whole again; the rain barrels were overflowing and the air was liberally scented with the peculiar muskiness of wet wool sock. But unlike the typical routine, instead of sniping at each other they were breathlessly waiting for something to slip out.

There was no doubt he'd follow through- their Captain was a man of his word-but no one wanted to miss the feat. Faramir felt like a polecat in a cage. Stared at. Behaviour watched and studied for every nuance. When would he speak? What would he say?

The scrutiny was starting to make him itch.

It was time to have some fun.

He sanded the parchment before him with a dramatic flourish, set his writing kit aside and then stood, cracking a back made stiff from sitting.

Every eye in the cavern fixed his way.

Slowly and sedately he paced over to his Second and tossed the finished report onto the barrel top that passed for Madril's desk.

"There. Please check it for any discrepancies. Tulkas' rod I'm glad tis done."

The entire troop gasped at once.

"Sir? Sir, did you?" Will, their youngest bright-eyed recruit, sat straight up and succeeded at looking dazed and hopeful all at once.

"I did."

Will looked to Damrod as a cavalcade of whispers rose. The lieutenant, who was leaning against the rough granite of the wall and nonchalantly cleaning a finger nail with the point of a wicked looking dagger, looked up and gave the barest nod.

"Yes!" Will's arms were thrown right up. His whoop was followed by the distinctive clink of castars.

Of course. The lads would bet on _anything_ and it soon became apparent that the day of each new utterance was fair game. It amused Faramir no end how much each man's bet reflected his Ranging style: Mablung's daring 5:1 he'd finish by his Lothron birthday; Anborn's tidy carefulness betting he be done the last day of the final week; Renil's measured judgement that fell between, landing on the summer solstice ball.

He'd had no direct intelligence, but he did suspect that the words themselves were also something of a target. A man would walk up and, with a hand before his mouth, suggest x or y, as if their Captain hadn't heard every possible imprecation in twenty years of Ranging.

It was diverting for a while. Until the suggestions took a different slant.

"How about Uinen's ti…...?" began Leuic, but Faramir quickly raised his hand.

"No. No, I am sorry, Private, but I draw the line at that. Women deserve our respect in all ways. I will not revile their parts."

There was a bit of grumbling as this this new rule was digested, but eventually the mutters settled down.

Madril, who had spent his youth queasily sailing from his Tolfalas home to Dol Amroth's quays- before happily accepting an assignment on solid earth-took the opportunity to speak.

He gathered close, passed across a welcome mug of tea and made a statement not a question. "Princess Ivriniel thrashed you for it as a lad."

Faramir smiled at the memory. "Aye." It was not that he couldn't swear, it was simply that he'd learned to choose carefully where he did. The dainty birdlike Princess who shoved around dock hands, crusty sea captains and Swan Knights with equal ease, was well known for the strength of her opinions.

"And then taught me an alternate from down upon the wharf."

Both men shared a grin, and Madril took a long, noisy slurp of his steaming brew. "I shall look forward to it." 

* * *

Thereafter, Faramir found he was more hesitant to follow up. Milder words like _muk_ or _rat-bastard or twatwaffle_ tripped out easily enough, were received each time with a mixture of surprise and fond approbation, but all too quickly he exhausted the supply of gentler maledictions.

A little more inventiveness was required.

"You bloody belligerent vole," he announced the next _Orbelain_ to the sneaky bush of _Orc's club_ he'd unhappily grabbed on their climb up to the nearest vantage point. It's four inch thorns were stuck right through his glove.

"That's not a curse word," observed Renil mildly as he quickly pulled the green leather off and began to examine the gash for bits. _Orc's club_ was nasty. It grew on the high bare slopes where there was often little else for purchase. And caused infection with alarming ease.

"Could be," insisted Will. "Might be offensive to the vole."

Damrod, who was quietly and violently hacking the culprit back to its roots, gave a noncommittal grunt. His face shifted from eyerolling to skeptical sarcasm with almost comic speed. "Yer going to ask it for us? Speak Rodent do you?"

"Better than looking like one," the lad shot back.

"Why you little….!"

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Faramir glared at then both, hissing only a little as Ren liberally smeared the black paste of coal tar that was used to disinfect on the run. The last thing this wet and miserable patrol needed was pointless bickering, but after three sodden weeks all their moods were tending to the sour. "We are in need of a definition. Would you allow 'Away, thou three inch fool'? Mithrandir taught me that."

Renil tied off a bandage and shouldered his pack again. "I'd say if it's said by a wizard, it must surely be good enough for us."

Damrod and Will debated a minute more and ultimately concurred that such expressions must be fair game. 'Somat ye'd dare not in heat fling straight out at yer gran," was agreed to be about the shape of it.

Faramir slipped on his damaged glove and began the ascent again, eyes peeled for broad flat leaves. He dared not tell them his wild and impulsive grandmother Eleanna had taught an entranced Ecthelion every swear word he knew.

While on the whole, the bet proved to be a good distraction from their unseasonably cold, damp spring, it also inflamed rain-shortened tempers.

"Nine!" announced Gadron triumphantly after Faramir had quietly uttered " _muk_ " for the second time. The toe of his boot had just knocked over a flask of bowstring oil.

The men, bent over their own evening chores of mending boots and rents in sodden cloaks, sat up a little straighter, glances darting through the dim-lit space, straining to see who had won that day.

Hallan frowned and shook his tawny head. "Nah..twas eight. Yer memory's off as mouldy bread."

"Twas eight…"

"Twas nine…"

The debate descended into heated arguing. Damrod, the final arbiter, was just checking the parchment calendar on which Torgil had compiled the bets and victors-the sad thing was going grey with too much fingering-when Faramir looked up, rag in hand, and noted Anborn had vanished into the shadows of the sleeping quarters.

What was their tracker up to? He had the next night watch with Mablung's troop-surely he wasn't sleeping now? A quick jerk of his head had the second lieutenant rising to investigate when a tawny head reappeared.

"Sir?" Anborn stepped into the lamplight holding something behind his back. "I thought as how we needed something permanent to commemorate the bet. Took twenty years to get you on the table. And this is a far more memorable event."

True. 'Getting on the table' was the time-honoured act of having one's name and most embarrassing non sequitur literally carved into the scarred oak of their dining board. Faramir had worked hard to avoid that honour but eventually even he slipped up.

Anborn ducked his head and shyly held out the item for inspection. It was a birch pole of just lower than man height, carved with _tengwar_ runes for each completed word and faint notches for those yet to come.

Incongruously, it was adorned with blue jay feathers and a deer skull on the top.

Damrod came closer and turned his shaggy head sideways. '''Born that is the ugliest fardling thing I've ever seen."

"He's not planning on asking it to the Barrack's ball," quipped Mablung, and a ripple of laughter echoed round the room.

Anborn, flushing red with embarrassment, stuck out his chin. "Aie now... I've put a lot of effort 'n it! Here, Sir, is the sinew loop that marks where you're at. The cuts line up for the ones' you've yet to do," he explained, showing off its salient points.

"Well certainly I am at eight," remarked Faramir, fingering the detailing and oddly touched by the effort. "It is ingenious Sergeant." And also a good excuse for another word. Why not give its creator a chance to show it off? "What in Mandos' halls is that?" he asked, pointing to a dangling strip of linen cloth embroidered with a rather wonky replica of The White Tree in leaf.

'Nine!" Gadron crowed and Anborn, grinning as wide as Belfalas Bay, pulled out his knife and deftly deepened the notch, inscribing the rune for 9. "Had to have something of yours, didn't it, Sir? It's your sigil of course. Done in squirrel tendon on my oldest undershirt."

An embroidered undershirt. In squirrel?

Faramir did his best not to shudder. Whatever would they think of next?

 _Nienna, may the weather finally break!_

* * *

Of course neither the Vala nor the weather listened. It broke all too briefly for a day or two before settling down to rain in earnest. Slapping, wind-thrown, painful drops hurled for hours on end, finding every gap and hole. Patrols returned stiff and soaked from slogging knee deep through the mud, but though the men were uncomfortable, they were professional. They knew there was nothing anyone of them could do. Especially their Captain who was, at least indirectly, providing some entertainment.

The enthusiasm for which word would be next reached nigh a fever pitch.

'Filthy dog' got a little traction. 'Troll's balls' even better odds. There was general agreement that as Faramir was fluent in three languages and conversant in another two, there was a high likelihood of other cultures' profanities being pressed into service.

He did not disappoint, but nevertheless started them off a little gently.

' _Olcaquent_ ,' he uttered at breakfast one morning whilst perusing the latest notice from Osgiliath. The pay packets would be late again.

A forest of sleepy heads popped up. Damrod whistled for Anborn who obligingly reached for the pole, but as Leuic desultorily stirred his porridge he frowned. "Tis not even Sindarin! How do we know he's cussed?"

Mablung reached across the table to cuff his private upside the head. "Of course he has. Did you not catch the tone?"

That much was true. But then Faramir thought ' _fair is fair'_. He leaned back and shot a question down the far end of the bench. "Damrod, did you stipulate Sindarin or Westron only?"

The veteran shook his grey head. ""Nay, sir. Tis fair for it to stand."

"But what's it mean?" asked the private mulishly, now sounding more puzzled than aggrieved.

"Bad word."

"Nay, Sir. My pardon, but what's it _mean_. _Twat, or sard or swive_. "

A chorus of mock shocked gasps flew down the table. Hallan, over by the kahva pot, pretended a dramatic faint.

Faramir pointedly ignored them all. "It literally means bad word,' he explained, rather proud to have remembered so much on such short notice "From ' _quent_ ' the archaic Quenya for 'word' and the modern ' _olca_ ' for 'wicked'. Easy enough to translate."

That didn't help. It was most disappointing when they took that one away and Anborn silently filled the notch again.

 _'Lombungr'_ was the curse essayed next. Boromir's personal favourite was a souvenir of his brother's sojourn in Rohan where Prince Théodred would loudly and frequently shower it on poor unsuspecting Riders' heads. The Captain-General had learned to deliver it in perfectly unaccented Rohirric, relishing the natural benefit of a word that sounded much worse than it really meant.

 _Lombungr_ meant 'idiot'.

Next, the Quenya for 'Go kiss an Orc' was accepted with great relish and gave Faramir many days of entertainment afterwards, as did _Lasta Lalaithamin_ : 'Listen to my laughter.'

The men's execrable but enthusiastic pronunciation was comically endearing. He'd had to double over howling when Renil accidentally announced 'Listen to my licking tongue.'

With time his initial discomfort of consciously looking for opportunities began to fade and Faramir found he relished the challenge of keeping the company on their toes. It proved most entertaining when they inevitably misconstrued words beyond the typical filth that fell out of a soldier's mouth-as on one windy and chill spring day when they sat cramped and bored on a particularly long reconnoiter near to Anduin's eastern shore.

"Lazy Cisticola!" exclaimed Faramir, ducking quickly when a lumbering wolverine flushed a .dusky long-tailed bird from beneath the undergrowth.

"Twelve!" Malec whispered excitedly and elbowed his tracking partner in the ribs. What's that mean then?"

Torgil's brass spyglass was set aside as he shook his large dark head. "Nowt. It's a type of bird."

"What is?"

"A cisticola, you flaming galah."

Faramir, hidden in the bracken just behind, sat silent, ribs shaking with laughter. The pair were arguing and unbeknownst to them, neither had actually cursed.

He had to bite his lip to keep from giving their hiding place away. "Actually, Tor, so is that!"

"So is what?"

"A bird. A flaming galah is a bright rose cockatiel nearly two feet high. The largest bird I have ever seen. It's native habitat is along the coast of Umbar through to Haradwaith. You've used a very pretty descriptor instead of an insult."

The Ranger blinked. "Blow me down, I have."

"And possibly insulted the poor thing mightily if you're comparing Malec to it."

"Hey!"

The young private, a full foot shorter than his Captain, bristled like an offended porcupine. 

* * *

Necessity pushed Faramir into greater creativity as the weeks wore on. ' _Moonstruck son of a goat'_ was very popular. ' _Cursed cock of a Kinslayer'_ even more. 'Face as tight as a biddy's buttocks' generated some nice applause. This was the enjoyable result of his efforts but unfortunately his imagination also spurred the bet-holders on.

Erlin-quiet, sober Erlin from Ringló's highest vale-shocked them all quite silent when he stood and asked, "How about my da's 'give us a fair suck of the sausage'?"

Mablung looked positively thunderous. "How about not."

Into the ensuing awkward silence, Brand's stage whisper dropped like a pebble down a well.

"I don't get it?"

His brows were knitted in puzzlement. It fell to Madril, lugubrious as ever, to slowly pull his pipe out of his teeth and explain.

"It is what is called a metaphor."

"Oh."

The lad turned a most spectacular shade of pink.

As Lothron passed, their days became punctuated by blessed snatches of dappled sun and the sound of clinking castars. Faramir didn't peek at Torgil's book-that would be unfair-but there was an obvious tell each day. As someone fell off the list, there would be a ceremonial scratching out of the name and a proffering of Damrod's gunny sack to collect the loss.

How many weeks did he have left? Two? Ten? He hadn't really planned upon a date and now that it was getting closer he found a certain wistfulness.

And also an unfortunate lack of muse.

The day came when he simply ran out of words.

There was nothing for it but to consult another authority.

Minas Tirith's chief archivist, a man with a remarkable amount of hair protruding from his ears if not from the top of his shining pate, was used to the Steward's second son's more esoteric and unusual requests.

"An Adûnaic dictionary? The Merendel sir?"

"No…ah." Faramir hesitated, running his fingers through his hair and wondering what response would prove less embarrassing.

The length of his pause seemed to give Waldrin the gist. The man coughed discreetly. "The Lorend, Sir? For the text or the artfully naughty bits? The Captain-General has perused it a fair few times."

 _Boromir had?!_ In his experience, his brother and books had only a passing acquaintance but then the penny dropped.

The illustrations were famously rather detailed.

Faramir flushed. "I need it to—ah- research some swear words in Adûnaic," he stammered, deciding truth was the better part of valour.

"Ah yes. Well." Waldrin tugged at his lip. "The Lorend _is_ a very good source indeed. There is _ammê ki_ _and_ _buroda bawab_ , _dulgu raba_ and _khaya kharb_ *. And a plethora of stronger options. Based upon a truly extraordinary variety of mores including the violent, the shocking, the absurd, and the impossible. Many avenues for scholarship."

Faramir paled. There was far more here, of far more appalling trend, than he had appreciated. "Uh…yes. Thank you, Waldrin. This will suffice."

He hastily grabbed the book and fled. 

* * *

The Solstice ball came and went. _Nórui's_ building warmth and sun gave way to a truly spectacular _Cerveth_. The men were happy: dry and well fed and fortunate in most haplessness of most of the Orcs they met.

Faramir was holding off. There was now just one word to go and only three names on the list. Anborn. Damrod. And Madril. He was unsure whom he wished to win, or even what the last word should be. Something Quenya? Risqué but Sindarin? Dwarvish, which he hadn't essayed yet?

The indecision was acute. Day after day of intense scrutiny fled by, and though he thought it would be best to finish close to the final week, the mounting pressure of performance did nothing to unstick his muse. Quite the contrary, it rather dried it up.

Damrod looked worried. Mablung, who'd lost to his friend so many times he'd sworn off even picking up a card, took to shushing any man who brought it up. Suddenly no one would look his way and that was almost _worse_.

 _Valar._ How had he got himself into this pickle?

The brandy.

Yes... well... That would be henceforth avoided at all costs.

Two days became ten. Two weeks sped past and then finally the penultimate week arrived.

They were in Cair Andros to meet the Captain-General and his men for a long-delayed campaign below Nindalf. All were anxious for the order to move out and Faramir, for a blessed hour at least, forgot entirely about the bet.

Boromir had just finished laying out the plan, had a shy Malec and Torgil brief them about the land's confusing tracks, when the incident that broke the dam arrived.

He'd sat down beside the unlit great hearth and put a mug of foaming ale before his little brother, grinning at the ears that were obviously cocked their way. "There. Three or five of those should do the trick."

Faramir paused aghast, mug in mid-air. "You know?! About the wager?"

"Aye, and I've 10:1 with Father that you'll be done before the loose pack of Trolls are brought to heel."

"Why...you…!" A sudden hush fell in the hall and every head turned their way. It was rare enough for their Captain to raise his voice, but to argue with his beloved brother? All waited with baited breath. "...snot-nosed, fish-bellied, snake-eyed, dick-headed, derelict arsehole! You told father about the bet?!"

"That's it!"

WIth a whoop, Anborn was on his feet brandishing the only slightly bedraggled totem. Torgil hastily pulled out the book. The men were cheering. Boromir sat tipped back his chair and laughing, head thrown back, not the least disturbed by his brother's insults.

Faramir stood a little shocked, still riled at the thought of explaining to Denethor, accepting back slaps and proffered hands, blinking at the sea of shouting men and a little surprised himself. He turned to face Damrod's grinning mug, hardly believing that after months of careful diction the bet already done. "You mean that's it?"

The veteran looked pleased as punch. He should. He'd made a fortune on the secondary bets. "Bugger I have more I haven't used."

"That's twenty-one!"

The hall erupted into stamping, thunderous hilarity. Heads turned and turned again, trying to espy the winner. Damrod, shoulders quaking, held up the bulging winnings sack. "Tor? Who has that then?"

The Ranger did not get the chance to say. Faramir, eyes wide with shock, watched Madril place his hands upon the battered dining bench, slowly push his immense frame up and walk forward through the throng.

He came abreast of Damrod, sagged just a little under the weight of the massive sack of brass and gold that was set into his hands, but caught his good friend's gaze.

"Twas bound to happen. Once started, I knew you couldn't stop."

.

~~~000~~~

.

'Flaming galah' is Aussie slang for 'doofus' and I have included it because of course it would work in Annafan's _Howzat_ and _Hazard Heart_ universe. :)

Devil's club is a real and treacherous plant.

'Go kiss an Orc' is reputed to be _Auta miqula orcu_..

Adunaic used here is cribbed from

 _ammê ki_ : your mother

 _buroda bawab_ : heavy wind

 _dulgu raba_ : dirty dog

 _khaya kharb: lie (with) a horse._

Many thanks to Gwynnyd for suggesting Troll's Balls; Annafan for Cursed Cock of Kinslayer; and to Carawyn and Gwynnyd for comments and encouragement. A huge grateful thank you to Wheelrider and Annafan for, as always, wonderful but much needed beta'ing and encouragement. Finally, a toast, and grin, and huge thank you to Altariel who asked for more ' _Cool Hand_ ' and even suggested a title and how to get the plot bunny running. ^_^


End file.
